


Not Today

by PlaidIsTheBestPattern



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Mary Winchester's Death, Angry Dean Winchester, Angst, Baby Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Abandonment Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, John Winchester Not Being an Asshole, John Winchester Tries, John Winchester comforts Dean Winchester, Kid Dean Winchester, Mute Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, POV John Winchester, Pre-Series, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series John Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Traumatized Dean Winchester, Traumatized John Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 15:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18574012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaidIsTheBestPattern/pseuds/PlaidIsTheBestPattern
Summary: “Dean—“ John starts to reach out, forgetful, but his four-year old backs away just as always, pulling just out of his grasp—just out of his range of touch.Dean hasn’t willingly allowed John to so much as touch him in weeks.Giving his father one final look that conveys nothing and everything at the same time, the boy steps back toward his bed and climbs into it, pulling the covers up and turning away from John.John swallows, arm dropping to his side in defeat. He stares at Dean’s small form curled up on the bed for a long time. At some point, he dazedly stumbles over to the other bed in the room and drops down.His last thought before sleep takes him is of Sammy sleeping on in the crib in the corner, as oblivious to his father’s absence in the past hour as he was to the fact that his mother was gone forever and he would never get her back.





	1. Chapter 1

John starts up the engine in a rush and lights out of the little residential-zoned business as quickly as the impala will take him, teeth gritted tight and anger seeping bone deep through him.

“Crazy bitch…!” He snarls to himself, thinking of how that woman—Missouri—had played with his emotions—had made him think she had answers about what had killed his wife, and then tried to feed him some crap about demons and ghosts and… and fucking wendigos or whatever the hell. 

“This is why you should be home with your boys, John—instead of out in the middle of the fucking night talking to lunatics trying to scam people out of their money!” He berates himself, slamming his hand down forcefully on the wheel. “A fucking savant… are you kidding me, John? You stupid son of a bitch…!"

He was so angry that the emotion slammed out of him in ragged snorts of breath, stewing within him all the way back to the motel he was camped at with his boys. 

Fucking Missouri. Fuck her and all of her scam-artist kind to hell—preying on people who are grieving and trying to make money off of them—calling and pretending to know things about them as evidence so they leave their sons asleep in hotel rooms alone at night.

John doesn’t care that she somehow knew that his father left him when he was a boy. He doesn’t care that she knew his wife’s favorite song and what the last thing she said to him was. What she had to say was utter lunacy, and there’s no possible way he will believe her— _ever._

…Never mind that she never actually asked for payment for the information she provided… she must’ve been getting to it. She _must_ have been.

Because the “supernatural” or what-have-you does _not_ exist. 

John doesn’t believe in things he can’t see. 

He closes his eyes briefly, tries to wipe away the memory of Mary unnaturally pinned to the ceiling—the terror in her eyes.

_That didn’t happen,_ He tells himself. _It’s trauma. It’s PTSD. That didn’t happen._

He can’t manage to make himself believe it. He knows, deep down, what he saw was real. 

When he pulls into the motel they’ve been staying at he’s calmed down a little, though the anger still stews just below the surface. With a sigh he pulls the key out of the ignition, knowing he should go back to the room and check on his sons. 

But if he goes in there, he’ll have to go to sleep or risk waking them, and…

John scrubs a hand down his face, thinking of the bottle of whiskey sitting in the trunk.

_Jesus_ —he has two young sons and he’s sitting here contemplating _medicating_  so that he can hopefully go to sleep and not see his wife’s face as she burned on the ceiling of their house, her horrified eyes staring down at him. 

“Yeah—fucking great father material, aren’t you?” John mutters to himself. 

He sighs. He doesn’t want to become a drunk… but the image of Mary—her body suspended from the ceiling before she burst into flames… he knows that image will never _ever_ leave him. 

_“Don’t you think the circumstances of your wife’s death were a little… strange?”_ Missouri had asked, before telling him what he already knew, but hadn’t dared tell another soul: 

That his wife burned on the ceiling of their house… 

The fucking  _ceiling_. 

Feeling a headache building, feeling the frustration of not having answers and _needing_ answers… needing them _desperately_ for his wife and for his sons and for himself and his own fucking _sanity…_ John yanked the car door open and started making his way up the stairs to the second floor of the motel.

When he opened the door to their room, he nearly jumped out of his skin though, scared shitless by his four-year-old, who was standing in the doorway, staring at him.

Judging him silently.

“Dean.” John said, throat tight.

The boy said nothing, simply gazing at him with a completely blank expression.

John tried to fight the nervousness he felt—the dread and guilt he experienced way down in his gut every time his oldest son looked at him now. He swallowed. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

Dean did nothing but continue to stare, green eyes just like his mother’s—just like Mary’s. 

Green eyes cold and lifeless, looking at him and asking, “Why haven’t you found out what did it? Why haven’t you made it pay?"

John closes his eyes.

It’s hard to look at Dean sometimes now.

But Dean is still his baby—his little boy—and he needs comforting and love and support.

John clears his throat, willing the images that haunt his dreams and waking with moments with Dean away, leaning down to be at eye level with his son. “Dean—“ John starts to reach out, forgetful, but the boy backs away just as always, pulling just out of his grasp—just out of his range of touch. 

Dean hasn’t willingly allowed John to so much as touch him in weeks.

Giving his father one, final look that conveys nothing and everything at the same time, the boy steps back toward his bed and climbs into it, pulling the covers up and turning away from John.

John swallows, arm dropping to his side in defeat. He stares at Dean’s small form curled up on the bed for a long time. At some point, he dazedly stumbles over to the other bed in the room and drops down.

His last thought before sleep takes him is of Sammy sleeping on in the crib in the corner, as oblivious to his father’s absence in the past hour as he was to the fact that his mother was gone forever and he would never get her back. 

 

* * *

 

 

It has been months since the fire stole Mary away, and Dean still has yet to say a single word.

It seems like years ago that John last saw him smile or laugh—he isn't even sure he remembers what it looked like anymore for his son to be happy.

Dean’s smile used to be so warm—his laughter so bright and fierce, his hugs so precious and loving. 

He used to be so  _happy_ —so kind and good and so, so talkative.

But when that… that  _monster_  took John’s wife away—took away his children’s mother… he also stole the warmth of his oldest son, and rendered him speechless. 

John tries not to think about it, but it’s hard in the moment, sitting in a Biggerson’s for the third night that week, Dean sitting silently across from him with his eyes fixed in the middle distance, ignoring the kids hamburger that John had ordered for him.

His sullen face sits in stark contrast to the face of the seven-month old baby in John’s arms, who is smiling joyfully while his father feeds him spoonfuls of “vegetable delight” baby food, so young that he will never understand the unnatural silence of his older brother, or understand John’s grief, or understand the loss that he has suffered. 

It aches when Sam smiles like that sometimes, because John knows he doesn’t really understand that he’s lost his mother. Sammy does look for Mary, and sometimes he cries. But he is easily placated when he does—not like Dean.

For all of the grief knowing Sammy won’t even _remember_ Mary causes him… John almost wishes that Dean had the same naive innocence, because the child in front of him, who is not even five yet, already carries the grief of an adult in his eyes—the warmth John used to see in him snuffed out like candlelight.  

Looking at Dean… it hurts John.

It hurts more and more every day.

At first, John was so stricken with grief over Mary that he failed to notice the absence of Dean’s voice. It wasn’t until a week after the fire that he came out of his loss-filled haze enough to realize that his son had completely shut down on him. 

He feels the grief from the fire rekindle inside himself, so potent that it’s almost like the night the fire happened. He almost wishes for Dean to have the same naive innocence that his brother carries. 

John feels a profound sense of resentment and rage toward the monster responsible for the fire. Because apparently taking away a family's home and all of their earthly possessions and the light of John’s life wasn’t enough.

No…  The monster also had to reach inside of his four year old, and crush whatever it was inside of him that had made him so full of joy and warmth. 

The fire didn’t just take away his wife. It took away his little boy too.

Sam coos, reaches for the spoon John is feeding him with. He’s innocent. Just a baby. But John fears his four year old isn’t anymore.

He wants to reach Dean… but he doesn’t know how. 

Even as Dean slips slowly into some unreachable place… John feels himself doing the same, all while Sammy smiles in his naivety, unaware of the darkness he’ll also be thrown into—if not by the trauma of Mary’s death… by John himself. John is slipping away. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Tom and Jerry was playing on the TV, the volume down low, and Dean lay on the couch, eyes heavy lidded as he varied his attention between the program and his seven-month old brother, sitting in a playpen with a couple of toys. 

Mrs. Katy wanted him to take a nap, but Dean couldn’t fall asleep, no matter how sleepy he felt. 

His tummy felt really funny right now. Kind of like a cold hand had reached inside it and started twisting around, and his throat felt kind of tight, and he could hear his heart thump-thump-thump when his hand rested too hard against his ear. His stomach felt funny a lot of the time lately. Even when Dad brought him pie or candy or other treats, Dean sometimes had trouble eating them. He knew it made his Dad worried, but he was afraid he would throw up if he ate them sometimes. It was kind of like the feeling he had one time when his Mommy had taken him to go get a shot. His Mom had called the feeling “butterflies,” and said it meant he was something called “nervous.” At the time, Dean had been confused and thought that his mom meant there really were butterflies in his tummy beating their wings against his insides. 

Ever since the fire, Dean had felt like that all of the time. 

He could vaguely hear Mrs. Katy, his neighbor (and in whose house he was currently sitting) talking on the phone. “I don’t know, Bill…” She said quietly, gripping the phone cord fretfully with one hand while she stared out the front window, her back to Dean. “…He said he’d be here two hours ago, but he’s not…”

It was said quietly, and Dean knew he probably wasn’t supposed to hear it. But he did anyway, and he knew Mrs. Katy was talking to her husband Bill, who was at work, and that they were talking about his Daddy.

Daddy also talked in hushed whispers on the phone a lot since the fire, just like Mrs. Katy. He went out late at night when he thought Dean and Sammy were asleep and came back while it was still dark out.

Dean would wake up and he would know he was alone.

The nervous feeling Dean always felt since the fire was always much worse when daddy wasn’t with him and Sammy. It was much, much worse—like the butterflies were really big, and beat their wings extra hard.

The fire ate up all of his clothes, and his toys, and Sammy’s toys, and all of Dean’s stuffed animals, and it ate up Mommy too. So all Dean had left was Sammy and Daddy. Dean got really scared when Daddy was gone, because it meant the fire could be getting him and eating him up too, and Dean didn’t know what he would do if that happened. 

Dean wanted to tell his Daddy that he wanted him to stay close, but the fire had eaten up his words too. 

So every time when Daddy left and kissed him on the head and told him he’d be back in a few hours... or left Dean alone in the middle of the night... Dean just sat still and didn’t look at his Dad and tried to sleep or to watch the cartoons and not think about the butterflies. 

But it was getting harder and harder not to think about them, because all the time they beat their wings harder and harder, and sometimes they beat their wings so hard that they made Dean feel sick and want to cry. 

But his Daddy had told him once when he skinned his knee that big boys don’t cry, so Dean really tried hard not to. And so far he hadn’t—he hadn’t cried one bit over his Daddy being gone, because he knew it was bad to cry and that his Daddy got really sad when he did, and he didn’t want to make Daddy’s eyes even sadder than they already were all the time. 

But it was getting so hard not to cry, because Daddy said he would be home. He _said_. And he wasn’t home. He wasn’t home with Dean where Dean could keep an eye on him and know that he was safe. He wasn’t home with Dean to make Dean feel safe and make the butterflies stop beating against his stomach so hard. He wasn’t home to protect him and Sammy. And because of it, a new feeling was starting to come when the butterflies came—a feeling that flared hot in his chest, and that Dean had known for a long time was called _anger_. 

Mommy and Daddy punished Dean when he got angry. He would do things like throw the peas on his plate on the floor, and he would get in trouble for being bad. So Dean tried not to get angry now either. But Daddy had been gone so, so much. He had been gone so many times that Dean couldn’t count them on his fingers anymore, and he had been gone longer than he had said, and he had left Dean so many times with so many different people that Dean couldn’t even keep track of them all. It was starting to make it very hard for Dean to be brave. He just wanted his Daddy to come home, and to stay, and to not leave again. And it was starting to make him mad that Daddy didn’t understand that. Because even though the fire took away Dean words… he felt like Daddy should already know that Dean didn’t want him to go. 

 

Hours passed, and it got late, and Mrs. Katy came and put a blanket over Dean on the couch and asked him again if he wanted some dinner, and told him again that she was sure his Daddy would be home soon.

She walked back to the phone and dialed a number, and that was when Dean felt the hotness in his chest get worse and the butterflies in his stomach beat their wings even harder—harder than they ever had before—and his throat started to feel really tight, and he knew that he was about to start crying, even though he’d told himself that he wasn’t going to do that. The tears were just about to spill over when Dean heard the rumble of a familiar engine, and quickly sat up.

“Dean?” Mrs. Katy’s voice came in through the kitchen, and she sounded more cheerful than she had in hours. "I think your Daddy’s come to pick you and your brother up now. Come let me help you with your shoes."

Part of Dean wanted to run to the door, but he didn’t want to be too far away from Sammy, so instead he did as Mrs. Katy said, and then he sat on the couch, watching the door and waiting for his Daddy to knock.

Mrs. Katy opened the door when the knock finally sounded, and the butterflies finally stopped beating, and Dean breathed out, so relieved that he almost smiled, even though he hadn’t been able to smile much since the fire, and the hotness was still there in his chest.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Katy,” His Daddy said, but he wasn’t looking at Mrs. Katy. He was looking at Dean, and he strode quickly into the room as Mrs. Katy dismissed his apology. 

Dean watched as his Daddy knelt down to be eye level with him, his eyes twinkling with a familiar smile. But ever since the fire, when Daddy smiled at him, it also looked a little sad. Dean knew Daddy looked at him sad a lot because he worried about him not talking, but he didn’t have any way to make that better, because the words were just gone and they wouldn’t come. 

“Hey, buddy,” His Dad said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Did you have an okay time with Mrs. Katy?”

Dean knows he should nod, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to say he had a bad time. He wants to say that he doesn’t want to stay here anymore—that he wants him and Daddy and Sammy to stick together and not be apart, because otherwise Dean doesn’t feel safe. 

So Dean doesn’t nod or shake his head, he just stares at his Dad, then pulls away so Daddy isn’t touching him anymore. 

Daddy’s eyes get real sad then, and he sighs and looks down at the floor. When he looks back up, his eyes are shining a little, and Dean almost thinks maybe he’s about to cry, but he knows Daddies don’t really do that. “Dean, why don’t you put on some shoes, and me and you and Sammy’ll go out to eat, huh? I promise I won’t leave again… not for at least a week.”

The promise makes the hotness in Dean’s chest go away a little, and he nods, smiling a little before his mouth drops back into a frown.

Daddy seems to notice, and there’s a little look of surprise on his face before he smiles too, just as briefly. 

* * *

At McDonald’s, Dean manages to eat two whole chicken nuggets. Daddy tries to get him to eat more, but Dean doesn’t think he can. He looks out the window and doesn’t look at Daddy when he asks, until his Dad sighs and turns his attention back to feeding Sammy a bottle. 

They check into a hotel room, and Daddy tucks him into a big bed all by himself. 

Daddy doesn’t sing to him like Mommy used to, and Dean’s still learning to try and fall asleep like that. It would be easier if he had his Batman pajamas. It’s also hard to sleep because his Dad snores, and sometimes Sammy wakes him up crying.

Dean doesn’t like to be in the bed by himself at all. It’s dark, and he can’t see Sammy or his Daddy, and that scares him, because what if they go away while he can’t see them, or while he’s asleep? What if they leave? What if fire comes in the night and swallows them up and there’s nothing Dean can do?

Dean’s eyes seem stuck open, and vague shapes he sees in the dark look menacing—like monsters. Dean knows that they’re not—that what looks like a big scary hooded man standing on the other side of the room is actually just Daddy’s towel hanging on the hook on the bathroom door. He’s still scared though. He wants to get up, but he’s also scared the monsters will get him if he does. 

When Daddy starts snoring, Dean gets ready to move. He gets up, and gropes his way to the crib set up in the corner. He feels around the wooden bars. He can relax a little bit more when Daddy snores, because it means he knows Daddy’s still there even if it’s too dark to see him. And to make sure Sammy is still there…

Dean drags his leg over the top of the crib and feels around for the mattress with his foot. He steps into Sammy’s crib, and lays down carefully, curling around the form of his baby brother. It’s the only way Dean knows how to sleep anymore in the dark—with Daddy’s persistent snores and his arms around his little brother, so he’s sure the two things he has left haven't left him. 

* * *

Dean feels much better the next morning. Daddy smiles when he sees he’s awakened, and calls him “bed head," asking him if he wants some lunch, because he missed breakfast. The butterflies have stopped beating their wings, because Daddy is here and he promised he wasn’t going to leave for a whole week, so Dean nods emphatically. He finally has his appetite back.

He’s biting into a PB&J that his Daddy made for him when the phone in their room rings. Dean ignores it, because he’s not supposed to answer the phone and he couldn’t answer it anyway because he can’t talk, and he’s actually watching cartoons now—not just half-watching them while keeping his eyes fixed on Sammy. Daddy puts more peanut butter than Mommy used to when she made Dean’s sandwiches and not enough jelly, so it’s not as good, but Dean is very hungry, so he eats the sandwich and another while Daddy talks on the phone, almost smiling when the coyote falls off the cliff on accident in his cartoon. 

He feels more relaxed than he has in days, because Daddy promised him, and even though it would be even better if they could stay in one place and not keep moving into different motel rooms, Dean is content. 

At least he is until his Daddy places the phone back on its stand with a sigh.

The butterflies start beating their wings again, and the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end, because he’s heard that sigh a lot over the past month, and he knows what it means. 

The cartoons are on commercial, but Dean still startles when the sound goes away, his Daddy having pressed the mute button on the controller. “Dean,” He says, and the sound of his voice makes the butterflies beat their wings even harder. 

Dean places the remainder of his sandwich back on his plate, what already rests in his gut suddenly feels like it weighs a ton. He can feel pressure building behind his eyes, because Daddy promised. He promised. So please. Please no.

Dean turns slowly to face his father, who is propped up on the bed he slept in, and who is regarding Dean with a pained expression. 

His Daddy buries his face in his hands, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Dean, I have to go,” He finally says, very quiet.

No.

Dean thinks it so hard—so hard and he wishes it would come out of his mouth, but it won’t. Instead, all he can do is think it with such force that his face turns red and a tear spills down his cheek. The butterflies beat against his tummy so hard he thinks he might lose his PB&Js. 

His Daddy is not looking at him, his eyes trained on the bedspread, but Dean needs his eye contact in order to convey anything right now, and he needs his Dad to look at him so he can tell him no, because he promised. His Daddy promised. 

Dean takes a breath, and it comes in shaky. He opens his mouth, works his jaw, and tries—tries so, so hard, to just say the one word. Instead, a barely audible choking sound comes from his throat, and more tears spills down his cheeks.

But he has to say it. He has to, because if he doesn’t his Daddy will leave and Dean can’t take it anymore.

He takes in another breath, tries again, fails, and feels the hot feeling in his chest start to curl and expand, except this time he’s not just angry at his Daddy—he’s angry at himself, because he needs to talk. He _needs_ to. He must.

Dean takes in one more breath, closes his eyes, focuses on the hot feeling, and finally, finally, after months of complete silence, finally chokes out, “No.” 

It’s not very loud, but it’s enough to get his attention. His Daddy’s head snaps up in shock.

Dean takes another breath, and through a throat that’s so tight with tears and nervousness that it hurts, he says again, “No”—this time a little louder—a little more forceful than before. Finally getting it out—finally being able to say it after weeks and _weeks_ of wanting to and not being able to makes it _hurt_ to finally be able to say it, and the tears spill harder and faster, Dean completely unable to stop them. “No!” 

He says it even louder—loud enough that Sammy, who is playing in his pen a few feet away, looks up from the toy he’s playing with.

“No!” Dean says it again—“No!” and again—“NO!” and again, unable to stop now that he’s started, even when his loud voice makes Sammy upset—makes him start to cry. 

“Dean…” His Dad says softly—so soft it’s barely audible.

Dean grits his teeth, snot running down his nose, panic clawing at his chest so hard he wants to scream. 

Only now that he can finally talk again, there’s nothing stoping him.

So Dean does.

He screams. 

He screams for all that he’s worth.

He gets up and grabs the pillows from the stupid, smelly, motel room couch, and throws them as far as his little arms will allow. 

“Dean,” His father’s voice is more forceful this time. 

“You promised!” Dean screams, louder than he has ever screamed in his entire life. “You promised you would stay! You promised, and you’re not leaving! I won’t let you! You can’t fucking leave!”

 

“Dean!” His Dad’s voice is shock with a hint of anger when Dean uses the curse word, but Dean’s heard his Daddy use the word before, and he doesn’t care that it’s a bad word right now. 

He doesn’t care.

Dean can’t be stopped. He doesn’t want to be stopped. He yanks the rest of his sandwich off the plate, and throws it—screaming—right at his Dad’s head. “I want Mommy’s sandwiches!"

He’s barely aware of his little brother’s screaming, so caught up in letting out the emotions that have been building inside him—the panic and anger and fear that he has had no choice but to bottle down up to this point. 

He grabs the complimentary hotel pens and note pad on the desk and throws those at the window. “I want my bed and my room and my clothes and my toys!"

He throws the remote on the foot of the bed at the wall.

“I want my nightlight, and to be sung to at night, and I want—"

He grabs one of Sammy’s toys and throws that too—right into the TV. It cracks the screen, distorting the image of Foghorn Leghorn, but Dean can’t even feel bad about it. He feels satisfaction instead.

“I WANT MY MOMMY BACK!"

He searches around for something else to throw, eyes spinning around wildly, and is about to reach for a book on the table when arms, large and strong, wrap around him from behind, and he is picked up, cradled against a broad chest. He struggles, screaming and fighting, hating his Dad so much and wanting to hurt him! Wanting to hurt him like he’s been hurting Dean for weeks and weeks. But finally, his father’s voice cuts through the haze of rage.

“Dean—Dean, son—please stop. Please stop this now…”

And Dean does stop. 

He stops, because his Dad is crying.

Dean can feel his Daddy’s tears hot on the back of his neck, complimenting his own. 

“I know Dean…” His Dad is saying very quietly—so, so gently—in a way Dean knows he doesn’t deserve after the tantrum he just threw, even if he’s not sorry for it. “I know…”

Dean has never seen or heard his Dad cry before. Not even after his Mom died. He didn’t think daddies could cry at all. 

“I know you miss her, Dean… I know you do. I know you must miss her so much… because I miss her too.”

In the absence of the rage, the pressure builds again behind Dean’s eyes. He inhales a shaky breath, and then all at once there’s not energy left in him at all, and he goes limp in his father’s arms, unable to do anything as the tears he has been unable to shed for a solid month fall full force, and he can finally, finally cry.

His Dad collapses with them both on the bed, pulling Dean against his chest, tucking him under his chin. 

Dean hasn’t been held like this in months. 

He hasn’t asked to be. 

He’s wanted it—he’s wanted it so badly, but he’s been completely unable to approach his dad—the distance between them in the wake of Mary’s loss like an impenetrable wall. 

Dean had almost forgotten how good it feels to be wrapped up in his Daddy’s arms—to feel like all he is is cocooned and unquestionably safe. 

Safe to grieve and to cry and to be vulnerable.

He weeps, and his Dad does too—stroking through Dean’s hair and rubbing his back, rocking him. 

Sam, thankfully, has quieted—returned to his toys because he is still far too young to understand the grief that is tearing the remains of his family apart.

There’s no telling how long Dean lays in his father’s arms, the two of them grieving together. Dean’s not sure the tears will ever stop now that they’ve started. But finally he calms down enough that he can at least talk again. “I want… I want Momma back…” He chokes out, closing his eyes, more tears squeezing out between his thick lashes.

“I know… I know…” His Dad soothes, sniffling. “I do too, Dean. I know…” He kisses Dean on the head. “But son… I’m so sorry… Your Mom is gone. I know it’s not fair, and it _hurts_ , and it always will… but your mom is not coming back.”

Dean blubbers, curling into his Dad’s shirt and wetting it with tears, because he knows. 

He knows that.

He just doesn’t want it to be true.

“I want… I want to go home…” he chokes out. “I want… I want to go home...” He brings small arms up, curling stubby fingers around his Dad’s shirt. “I want… I want you… I want you to stay, Daddy… please. _Please_ don’t go away anymore… It scares me. It makes me so scared. Please, Daddy… Just… just stay. Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave me!”

The chest he is pressed against rises and falls unevenly. “I won’t leave, buddy... Okay. I won’t go. Not today.”

Dean sobs desperately with relief, burrowing into his daddy's arms and holding him so tight that he hopes Daddy wouldn’t even be able to pull him off if he tried.

“Not today,” John repeats, rocking him and rubbing his back. 


End file.
